


Mortis

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [34]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:44:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Young Skywalker was on the right track, calling this place a wellspring, but it’s more accurate to say that Mortis is a nexus.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mortis

**Author's Note:**

> Betabetabeta - completed by the talented Merry Amelie, Norcumi, and WritestuffLee
> 
> IMPORTANT: You as the reader can make the call, but I *strongly suggest* watching three specific episodes of The Clone Wars before reading this chapter. Those episodes are: Overlords of Mortis, Ghosts of Mortis, and Altar of Mortis, and all three can be watched on YouTube for free.
> 
> EDIT: Well, balls. The episodes were all up in their entirety a few weeks ago, and now there are just random clips. Disney/Lucasfilm must have pulled them. Huh. If anyone has Amazon Prime, the episodes can be watched for $1.99 a pop. Libraries should have them for nabbing, as well. If all else fails, there are really good episode summaries at Wookieepedia (starwars.wikia.com).

Republic Date 5201: 4/30th

The Jedi Temple, Coruscant

 

Kimal Daarc rested his elbows on the work table, letting his long fingers tap against its metal surface. Any one of his long-term students would recognize the expression on his face as an intense frown, if they had not already felt his displeasure in the Force.

“Why the hell are you glaring at your lightsaber?” Callero asked, emerging from their shared office.

“I am glaring at it because it is here,” Kimal replied.

“And that is unusual…how?”

Kimal turned to look at his former mentor. “It is not _supposed_ to be here,” he said. “It is _supposed_ to be in the company of my idiot brother Padawan.” Kimal turned back to regard his lightsaber in irritation. He had built the casing out of strong, durable metal. It could likely survive being used to strike Obi-Wan in the head without creating a dent.

Callero was silent for a moment. “You need to wash that thing with sand,” he growled at last.

“Why in the world would I want to give my lightsaber a cat bath?” Kimal inquired.

Callero stalked over and pointed a furred finger at Kimal’s lightsaber. “It stinks of Darkness. It needs a damned good bath before you take it into the salle again. What the hell has your brother Padawan gotten himself into that your lightsaber feels like it spent a month on Korriban?”

Kimal ran his finger over his lightsaber’s hilt. His senses were not as fine-tuned to Darkness as some other Jedi. He had focused his skills on crystal acquiring, on function and form, not interpersonal relations. Still, now that Callero mentioned it, he could feel the echo of something off-putting.

Qui-Gon had warned him, of course, most discreetly. Obi-Wan’s predicament was unfortunate, but Kimal had stood firm in his desire to see his brother Padawan carry his lightsaber.

Instead, on this very day, it had arrived in the Temple, borne by Master Gallia’s hand. “He said, ‘It has served me well by not being needed to serve me at all,’” she had quoted for Kimal. In a quieter voice, she had added, “He is very concerned about unintentional contamination, and does not wish to disrespect his brother Padawan’s gift so badly.”

Kimal had accepted his lightsaber, and her message, with good grace, but now he was annoyed. Stupid, foolish Obi-Wan, who had acquired so blasted many of their Master’s terrible habits.

“They are _perfect_ for each other,” Kimal grumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Kimal said, and picked up his lightsaber. He was not concerned about lingering Darkness or taint. He was _excellent_ at his job, and cleansing crystals was not a hardship.

 _Stupid brother Padawan,_ he thought again, settling down with his lightsaber to give it a good, thorough cleansing with the Force.

_You had better come home._

 

*          *          *          *

 

Anakin managed to narrow down their flight time from four days to not quite three, a feat that involved a black hole and made the _Speckled Band’s_ crew more than a little nervous. Venge had, perhaps, taken too much delight in their fright, but gods, anything was useful for distracting himself from the fact that he was stuck on a ship, without respite, for _three damned days._

“The _Speckled Band,_ huh?” Anakin had asked within their first hour aboard. Venge had lingered long enough to hear the answer.

Their co-pilot, a skinny, short, wraith of a human named Talbot, had just grinned. “There’s a band of carbon scoring across the _Band’s_ hull. Happened on the ship’s maiden flight, and that shit will not come off. The name stuck, too.”

Venge made it through the first twenty-six hours without difficulty. Then he vomited bright red blood on the floor of the cargo bay and passed out. He woke up just enough to realize that Abella and Zarin Har were prepping him for a bacta tank, which gave him warning not to panic and lash out when the nightmares started.

He held out until he dreamed of Yoda, wearing that same sad, sympathetic smile, trying to lock him into another box. Except—no, he’d read the motions wrong, and he was not being packaged into a mental block, but literally shredded, one bit at a time.

Venge awoke gasping, trying not to retch when he registered awareness of the tube still jammed down his throat. Disorientation set in and panic reared up, a situation that Fire was glad to take advantage of as it surged over the first barriers in his mind—

Qui-Gon bent over him. “Shipboard!” he said, not quite a shout. “Space flight! Not here!”

Venge pulled back the burning edges before it could manifest, but the energy still had to go somewhere. He internalized the energy burn, squeezing his eyes shut when what felt like literal fire ravaged his body. He almost choked again when he tried to breathe out and realized the fucking clamp was still pinching his nose shut.

“Easy.” Qui-Gon’s fingers were stroking his forehead. “That probably did not help the situation.”

 _No,_ he thought, opening his eyes. Tension and pain turned his muscles to brittle lines of ice. _No, it did not._

Abella appeared next, her bacta-moistened fingers touching the breather that was still attached to his face. “Breathe out,” she ordered. He did so, and she removed the breather and the tube with it. It was an effort not to gag, but if he could keep from blowing a hole in the ship’s hull, he could keep mere reflexes from dominating his reactions.

Qui-Gon was still touching his face, his hair. With the breather off, the stench was so blasted awful that he must have just been pulled from the bacta tank. “You have _got_ to ease down,” Qui-Gon told him, his voice soft but still filled with the severity of a command.

“Yes, please do,” Venge heard Har say. “You have cranked up the anxiety so high that everyone on the ship is wandering around either foul-tempered or in tears.”

Venge swallowed, tasted bacta on his tongue, and grimaced as he checked on his shielding. Most of the specialized blocks and compartmentalization he’d set up, meant to keep the rage of Fire from affecting those around him, were eroded almost down to nothing.

“How long—” Force, he sounded like he’d just spent days in a smoky room. “How long was I out?”

“Two days,” Abella said, and then matched him glare for glare when Venge scowled at her. “We couldn’t stop the bleeding, idiot.”

When put that way, Venge could see her point. Still, two days in bacta… “Please tell me that we are _there._ ”

“Six hours out,” Har said after a moment’s delay. “Think you can tone it down until then? Not blast a hole in the hull?”

“I could merely set you on fire to suit my needs,” Venge said in a contemplative voice.

“Ass,” the Bothan replied, unconcerned. “When you are more or less sane again, Kenobi, you owe me so much alcohol.”

“Bill me,” Venge muttered, and was unsurprised when Abella just snorted and dropped a towel onto his face.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Republic Date 5201: 5/2nd

Mortis, the Chrelythiumn System, Wild Space

 

As a research vessel, the _Speckled Band_ was graced with a large transparisteel viewport, one that ran almost the entire length of the ship’s uppermost deck. It gave them all the impression of staring down upon Mortis. The researchers aboard had already surmised that Mortis emitted no radio signals, no life readings—nothing to indicate they were looking at anything other than a planet-sized geometric sculpture.

Most of the ship’s research contingent, and the Band’s crew, now avoided Venge like a plague brought to life. Venge either didn’t notice, or didn’t care; Qui-Gon suspected the latter. Two of the researchers remained unconcerned; both were firmly lodged in the University of Coruscant’s academic circle. The Twi’lek Danna’tani and his partner had taken in Venge’s appearance, asked several prying questions that had caused his mate to grimace, and then promptly turned their attention right back to the Mortis puzzle.

Danna’tani was a quieter counterpart to Zeltra Eor, who was busy verbally losing her mind over the fact that Mortis’s protective enclosure was an octahedron. Qui-Gon didn’t give a damn what shape it was; the black monolith appeared darker than space itself, and was almost invisible when set against the void.

It was Master Vakiti who remained the sole Temple-based being aboard ship who pretended not to be intimidated by Venge. Qui-Gon knew it was pretense because of the way the Kushiban’s fur flattened itself along her spine, but he did respect her for at least attempting nonchalance while in Obi-Wan’s company.

Vakiti’s large ears twitched as they all stared at the monolith that encased the planet. “Well, I lost _that_ bet,” she muttered.

“Bet?” Anakin asked, glancing up.

“Bets placed on whether or not the Mortis monolith existed,” Vakiti explained, tail twitching. “I really need to stop gambling.”

“You also seemed to have lost a Padawan,” Venge said, though most of his attention remained on the monolith. His face was expressionless, whereas Anakin had a pinched set to his mouth that had appeared the moment the monolith came into sight.

“Of course I did.” Vakiti leapt from her perch and took up residence on Qui-Gon’s shoulder. The Kushiban was a two hundred-year-old Jedi Master, yet weighed only a fraction more than Teya did. “I saw Aalto Knighted last month. Glad to see the freeloader go,” she said in a gruff voice that was marred by the pleased glimmer in her eyes.

[ _How_ can there be a _planet_ inside that?] Rillian asked, shoving her arms into the sleeves of her robe.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Danna’tani said, his lekku twitching as he regarded the monolith.

“Guys, I’m telling you, it’s the _shape,_ ” Eor began gushing. “Octahedrons are geometrically perfect for housing larger structures because of the volume that the shape creates! Plus, maybe we can deduce the material that composes the monolith based on its octahedron appearance. There are so many space-faring metals that present as octahedrons when in their natural crystalized state—”

“And diamonds,” the Twi’lek murmured.

Eor waved her hand in dismissal. “Diamonds aren’t nearly as interesting as kamacite and torrinium. Kamacite is even the right color! Either way, look—”

[Does anyone else feel like they’re being watched?] Rillian asked. Qui-Gon tuned out the scientist’s enthusiastic rant to focus on his Padawan.

“Kinda,” Anakin said. He was staring at the monolith-protected planet with haunted eyes. “Force, it looks exactly the same.”

“How did you enter it the last time?” Qui-Gon asked, aware that Danna’tani was listening to them while still making remarks on Eor’s mathematical concepts.

“We were pretty much invited inside.” Anakin pointed at the monolith. “A door opened up, right on the side of one of the faces. It was like flying into white light.”

“When did this occur?” Danna’tani asked, after Eor paused for breath.

“Uh—” Anakin looked perplexed by the question.

“I mean, how long after your arrival on site did the monolith open?” the Twi’lek clarified.

Anakin visibly relaxed. “Oh. Not long. Maybe a minute or two.”

“And we are far beyond that marker now,” Venge said. “Perhaps it feels we are uninvited guests.”

“I wonder if the creepy Ones are still alive.” Anakin made a face. “It’s probably not the kindest thought, but I really hope not. I don’t want to deal with their crazy all over again.”

Qui-Gon noticed the increased intensity to Venge’s stare. “Obi-Wan?”

“I do not…hear anything,” Venge said, after a short pause. “But that is not reassuring.”

[It’s not really doing us any good to stand here and stare, is it?] Rillian asked, the first to lose patience with the wait. [It’s lunchtime.]

“It does seem as if Mortis is in no hurry to invite us in.” Qui-Gon glanced at Venge, who shrugged and turned away.

“I am sure it will gain our attention when it wants us,” Venge said, which pinged Qui-Gon’s instincts as being far too accurate.

“Sure, food sounds good,” Anakin said, though he still looked pensive.

Qui-Gon allowed Vakiti to leap to Danna’tani’s shoulder, but paused before following the others. He turned back to the monolith, sharpened his senses, and listened.

What he heard, then, was not the monolith, but a faint echo of his own voice, saying a vow he could not recall ever speaking before. _No matter what happens, I_ will _find you. I swear it._

Qui-Gon shook off the trance that wanted to settle into place. He had no idea what the words meant, or who he was speaking to—he could only presume that it was some strange glimpse of the future.

 _Please let me not be speaking to my Lifemate,_ Qui-Gon thought. It was far too easy to imagine unpleasant scenarios involving those words.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“You should really eat something,” Anakin said, to Venge’s frustration. It was a statement he had already heard from Abella, Zarin Har, Qui-Gon—even Zeltra Eor, though she had squeaked and raised her hands in defeat when he turned and stared at her.

“Not right now,” Venge said, the words more or less calm, not marked by the tension that made him want to grind his teeth. “It never sits well just after bacta.”

[Wasn’t that six hours ago?] Rillian asked.

At least the Wookiee had yet to try and coax him into stuffing a tasteless and unnecessary ration bar down his gullet. “Yes, but at the moment, it is still too soon.” Rillian nodded, willing to accept the explanation; Anakin just rolled his eyes and returned to his lunch.

Qui-Gon had brought him tea, anyway. Tea was far more preferable to food.

“Master Kenobi?”

Venge half-turned in his seat, discovering the _Band’s_ communications officer standing there. The Rodian half-closed his eyes to avoid the burn of his stare. “Yes?”

Binteo’s gaze became a squint of discomfort. “There is a call for you, marked urgent and private.”

“Expecting anyone?” Qui-Gon asked, looking just as curious as Venge felt.

“No.” He considered it for a moment before picking up the mug of tea. “Where can I accept this call, Lieutenant Binteo?”

“Er, this way,” Binteo said, whirling around and almost whacking his face against the doorframe. “Uh, sorry. This way, please.”

Venge let out an amused breath. “I shall return with gossip,” he told the others, and followed the Rodian.

The comm officer took Venge to a private room, just off the bridge. “Audio only,” Binteo said, looking apologetic. “Just shut the door and you’ll have full privacy.”

The moment Binteo left, Venge toggled on the comm. He hesitated for a breath, almost a second too long, before remembering that he had been asked for by his _other_ name. “This is Kenobi.”

“Well,” a deeper, male voice replied, marked by a very familiar accent. “Fancy finding a Jedi Master all the way out here in Wild Space.”

“Jango Fett,” Venge said, sitting up straighter. “This is unexpected.”

“Thought it might be. Haven’t seen you since the invasion of the scaly lizards,” Fett replied.

“Four years,” Venge said. “What is it that you want? I do not think this is a social call.”

“It’s….it is, and it isn’t,” Fett replied, which was cryptic, and made his curiosity soar. “Unless I am keeping you from whatever shiny bit of importance you lot are hunting in Wild Space.”

“On the contrary, you are keeping me from having to confront a problem that I would rather avoid dealing with.” Venge took a careful sip of tea, glad to find it just cool enough to be bearable. He’d scorched his insides enough of late; he did not also need a scalded tongue.

“Right, then,” Fett said, and switched to speaking Mando’a. “You did that whole bit about ousting the Naboo Senator, revealing him as a Sith. I thought maybe you could give me some advice about a similar problem I’ve been dealing with for quite a while now. Willing to help me?”

“Perhaps. It depends on what is in it for me,” Venge replied. His accent was off, but his Mando’a was still flawless.

Fett sounded amused. “Now that’s not a very Jedi thing to say.”

“This is not about the Jedi. This is a Mando’ade matter, is it not?”

“Some days I still think it’s a damn shame that you’re married off,” Fett returned, laughing.

Venge smiled. “Don’t be a tease.”

“All right, then,” Fett said, “here’s my problem. I want the Free Mandalorians back.”

He sipped his tea. “Death Watch might not appreciate that idea.”

“That’s what that fuck Pre Vizsla calls them,” Fett growled. “They were better than that, before he came along.”

“Hmm.” Venge set down the mug. “And you do not believe that challenging him to combat is going to net you a solid win.”

“Hell, no,” Fett all but spat. “He cheats and schemes, breaks every damn part of the Codex with every step and breath he takes, and still manages to look golden once he’s done.” Fett sighed. “I need an in, Kenobi. Granted, I’m not sure you’d be willing to give it, after supporting the Duchess the way you and Jinn did a few years back.”

Venge frowned, annoyed. “Supporting the Duchess? Yes, we did that. Supporting that damned ban against shield-brothers and sisters? Fuck, no. None of us wanted that. Not even Satine.” He caught himself before his irritation could grow; the crew of the _Band_ would not be happy to find instruments soaked in tea if he broke that damned mug.

“I already knew that about you and Jinn. Didn’t know the Duchess also thought it a shit law.” Fett sounded amused. “Still nice to hear it said, though.”

Venge rolled his eyes. Telling Fett that he also thought that Mandalore’s new tenets of pacifism had been a stupid fucking idea would be well-received, but he didn’t think a potential end-note for his career should be, “Started another Mandalorian war.” He’d done that enough as a Jedi, anyway.

“Well, you’ve heard my problem. Got any advice?”

Venge’s lips quirked. “Bo Katan.”

“Bo Katan?” Fett repeated in surprise.

“You heard me. If you want an in with Death Watch, some way to make sure that you’re the one outsmarting Vizsla this time, then you need to speak with Bo Katan.”

“She’s one of his top lieutenants,” Fett said. “Why the hell would I want to talk to her?”

“You wanted my advice,” Venge said in a dry voice.

“Yeah, but I want the advice to make some gods-damned sense!”

Venge let out a soft laugh. “Bo Katan stays in Vizsla’s company because Death Watch represents the closest thing to traditional Mando’ade culture remaining. That does not mean that she likes Vizsla.”

Venge let the silence play out until it got on his nerves. “Well? Are you still there?”

Fett’s voice was low and serious. “If she listens to me, if this works out—how do I thank you?”

Venge didn’t even hesitate. “If you make Pre Vizsla very, very dead, I will consider that to be thanks enough.”

Fett snorted. “Still not sounding very Jedi, Master Kenobi.”

“I. Do. Not. Care,” Venge bit out, and then quelled the spike of temper with a frightening amount of effort. “Vizsla is responsible for the death of someone I—” Venge pressed his lips together, calming his voice. “Kill him, put his head on a pole, launch his body into the sun—I don’t care as long as the final result is _dead_.”

“Huh,” Fett said, with an amused sort of wariness. “And here I thought that I hated the lying prick.”

“Hate is such a strong word,” Venge said, feeling his heartbeat return to something approaching normal. “I just want to see him wiped from existence.”

Fett laughed. “You sure you and that big Jedi of yours aren’t into bigamy? Polyamory?”

“You know, that hasn’t actually come up yet.”

“Let me know if you figure it out,” Fett said, still chuckling. “I’ll send you proof when Vizsla is dead. I pay my debts, brother.”

Venge felt a chill that had nothing to do with space travel. “I—I know that you do. To your victory, brother.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” Fett said in farewell, and signed off.

“That sounded interesting,” Qui-Gon said from behind him.

“That will teach me not to shut the door,” Venge countered in Basic, spinning the chair around to face his mate.

Qui-Gon sighed. “Please tell me that you did not do what I think you just did.”

Venge smiled. “I did not do what you think I just did.”

“Obi-Wan.”

Venge retrieved his tea mug. “There are honestly times when it might be best to become selectively deaf,” he suggested.

Qui-Gon shook his head and settled down across from him in the small room’s only other chair. “If I have to spend another six months living in a series of ditches across the surface of Mandalore and Concordia because of what you just did, I am going to be very cross.”

“I do not believe it will come to that,” Venge said. _Not for a while yet, at least._

“Well, as long as the damage is done…what in the worlds did Vizsla do that you are requesting his rather traumatic death?” Qui-Gon asked.

Venge had to take a swift breath, or else he was going to blow apart the mug, and half of the electronics in the room. Fire liked this anger, which burned hot and clear; it was the perfect fuel for the rage.

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon was staring at him in concern.

“Pre Vizsla thought to retake Mandalore for his own ends, and to do so, he acquired an…undesirable ally. Vizsla is directly responsible for Duchess Satine Kryze’s death.”

Qui-Gon sat back in alarm. “That wasn’t in the Sharing.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Venge said, cradling the mug in both hands when his fingers wanted to shake. “A lot of the war was left out. I had no fucking desire to relive that moment, or any of the other moments like it.”

It wasn’t safe to become this angry in a space-faring vessel. Venge let the anger flare and expend itself outside the ship’s hull, where it crackled and sparked uselessly in the void of space. “Satine’s death was used to hurt me. That was the only reason she was killed. It was fucking pointless, and Vizsla made it happen. Fuck him. If Jango Fett scatters that man’s body from Mandalore to Coruscant, I’ll cheer him the entire damned way.”

It didn’t seem prudent to get into the complicated identity of Satine’s killer. Venge could not handle the idea, not today—not with Mortis sitting out there like a galactic taunt.

Qui-Gon smiled ruefully. “It’s much harder to become selectively dumb than selectively deaf, you know.”

“Perhaps the next time you hear me having a conversation with someone else in Mando’a, you should consider being less nosy.”

“I do not think I will be overcoming that character flaw anytime soon,” Qui-Gon said, which made Venge’s lips twitch in what was almost a smile. “I understand your anger, but it seems as if…” Qui-Gon hesitated. “The decision is made, but Fett is correct: it was not necessarily the most Jedi-like of requests.”

Venge sighed. “Qui-Gon. I am capable of discerning friend from foe, ally from enemy—good from evil, even. But you—all of you—keep forgetting something very important.” Venge stood up, staring Qui-Gon in the face. “I love you, Anakin, Rillian, Jeila, and our friends. But I am _not_ a Jedi.”

Qui-Gon smiled at him, which made Venge both adore him and want to swat him. “Yes, you are. Both, remember?”

“I don’t care what that damned prophecy—” Venge started to say, and then the blasted lights went out.

When the light came back, Venge was no longer on the _Band_.He was standing on a rocky coastline under a starry night sky, and the roar of the ocean was in his ears. He spun in place, bewildered. “What—the _fuck?_ ”

There was a disorienting moment when he realized he was alone before Qui-Gon, Anakin, and Rillian were standing before him.

Qui-Gon’s left hand was on his lightsaber, the other reaching out to grab Rillian’s shoulder as the Wookiee lost her footing on the sudden, rocky ground. “What. The _hell,_ ” his mate ground out, glaring at their unexpected surroundings.

“Oh, come on!” Anakin tilted his face up to shout at the sky. “At least last time we got to _fly_ in!”

[Did…did we just get kidnapped by Mortis?] Rillian asked in a very small voice, clinging to her Master’s hand while she glanced about with wide, shocked eyes.

“It would seem so,” Venge murmured, turning more slowly this time as he looked around. The ocean lay to his right, an endless expanse of black, with waves crashing into the rocks a few meters away. To the left were rocky cliffs, with shoreline that seemed to go on for kilometers in both directions. The sky above his head matched the star patterns of the Chrelythiumn system. Even the _Band_ was present, tracking across the sky as an overly bright dot.

“We shouldn’t be able to see the stars at _all_ ,” Anakin said as he looked up, a stubborn, angry frown on his face. “We couldn’t before, because we were inside the monolith!”

“Then perhaps the monolith is an illusion?” Qui-Gon was staring up at the sky, as well.

“Perhaps the monolith acts as a two-way mirror.” Venge thought both options were plausible, but they would not be able to test either without gaining contact with the _Speckled_ _Band._

“No good,” Anakin said, after trying to raise the ship on his comm. “I think we’re on our own for now.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time,” Qui-Gon said, following his Padawan down from the rock pile and onto soft, coastal sand. The planet didn’t look anything like Anakin had once described, but that was nothing compared to the feeling of almost overwhelming _familiarity_ he was dealing with.

Venge glanced at him, as if sensing the difficulty, but didn’t comment on it. “Anakin, suggestions?”

“Let’s get moving,” Anakin said after a moment. “We’re not getting anything done just standing here. Plus, I have no idea if this place has tides or not, and I don’t want to tempt this place into drowning us for fun.”

In that, they were all agreed. Qui-Gon took the lead at Anakin’s insistence. The Padawan might have been on Mortis before, but, Anakin explained, he didn’t want his memories to override whatever might be in store this time. Rillian followed close behind her Master, her nose practically in the air as she kept her senses alert for potential dangers. Anakin trailed a few paces behind. Venge came last, his unlit lightsaber in hand.

 _Don’t you think that’s a bit paranoid?_ Qui-Gon sent. Mindspeech had quickly become the best option, for the roar of waves crashing against rock had grown louder, making conversation difficult, at best.

 _It’s perfectly paranoid,_ Venge replied. _If there is anything planning to sneak up behind us, it will find itself eating a lightsaber._

Qui-Gon turned to reply and halted in surprise. Venge was gone, as were Rillian and Anakin. _Obi-Wan!_

 _Where did you go?_ Venge sounded close to panic.

 _I went nowhere!_ Qui-Gon protested, realizing as he turned in place that he was standing at the mouth of a cave that had not been there a moment ago. The coastal sand was no longer beneath his boots, and the roar of the ocean had been silenced. _Or perhaps I did?_

 _Aw, man!_ Anakin sounded unhappy and irritated. _This planet’s messing with us again. Master, can you sense us? Can you feel where we are in relation to you?_

 _No. I can’t._ Venge’s response was accompanied by a flash of bright, acrid temper. _I can sense that you all live, and we’re obviously able to communicate. But where you are in relation to my own position, I’ve no idea._

 _I have no idea where I am, either,_ Rillian chimed in, sounding lost. _Which one was the crazy one, Skywalker?_

_The young guy. If they even still exist._

Qui-Gon breathed out anxiety, touching the Force, and found no sense of danger waiting for any of them. _Despite our sudden shifts in location, all seems to be well. Perhaps we should explore what we’ve been presented with?_

 _I got that stupid well,_ Anakin grumbled.

 _I have a temple._ Rillian sounded hesitant. _I think._

 _I believe that I see a tomb,_ Venge said. _That is most informative._

 _Grave? Is it_ her _tomb?_ Anakin asked in alarm.

 _I don’t know, but I am going to find out,_ Venge promised.

 _Be careful,_ Qui-Gon sent, concerned about what his Lifemate and their Padawans might be getting into. If there were lessons to be learned on Mortis, he didn’t think they would resemble what Anakin had said he, Obi-Wan, and Ahsoka Tano had once gone through. Things were different, now.

Qui-Gon received three acknowledgements before stepping through the cave’s entrance, wondering at the feel of the place— immediately he sensed it was familiar, and he didn’t like that revelation at all. Bad feelings didn’t even _begin_ to cover this. He sighed, pulled his lightsaber free from his belt, and ignited the blade, casting emerald light down the narrow, rocky passage.

The cave descended deep into the earth, and each time Qui-Gon kicked a rock loose, it went tumbling down the steep slope, sending sharp echoes bouncing off the walls. He kept his footing with precise movements and sheer stubbornness, grimly certain that if he slid, he wouldn’t come to a stop until he found the bottom.

For a time the cave got darker and darker, until the only light was from his lightsaber. Qui-Gon considered shutting it down and relying on the Force, instead, but decided he preferred having it at hand. Childish, possibly, but even the emerald beam’s shallow light was more reassuring than utter blackness.

Then the light changed, and there was phosphorescent dawn somewhere up ahead. At the same time, his path began to level, until he was walking at an even keel once more. The mineral scent of cave water struck him, and he followed the blue glow until the water could be heard in distinct _plinks_.

The cave passage broadened out into a wide, high chamber, full of massive stalactites dripping water into shallow pools. The phosphorescent glow was strongest here, coming from moss that grew on the walls and the stalactites. Even the occasional tiny cave creature, crawling along the rocks, shared in the faint glow.

Then he lowered his lightsaber in surprise, because the light wasn’t just emanating from the life forms that had chosen this cave as a home. Another being was in the cave, glowing with what Qui-Gon had learned to recognize as the distinct blue aura of a Force ghost. Only a few meters distant, the ghost’s back was turned. The only tell-tale feature visible was the ghost’s long hair, pulled into a simple tail knot. The color of the ghost’s robes and hair was impossible to distinguish because of the faintness of the apparition, leaving Qui-Gon unable to even fathom the spirit’s identity.

It was Qui-Gon’s first experience with an actual Force ghost aside from Fieff. _Well, Anakin did say that Mortis plays by its own rules,_ he thought, and shut down his lightsaber.

The noise caught the apparition’s attention, and it turned in place, long robe swirling just as it would have if the ghost were alive. The man who stood there offered Qui-Gon a wide smile, and despite his translucent nature, his eyes were full of laughing warmth.

“Hello, Qui,” Obi-Wan said.

 

*          *          *          *

 

The path to the tomb—her tomb, Venge was almost certain—was not smooth. The stone was worn, and grass had forced its way through cracks in the stone. It wouldn’t be long before greenery would grow over the entire path. The flat roof of the tomb showed its age, its edges rounded by time. Vines had grown up the sides of the building; the thick lines of black and green did not quite touch the door, as if afraid to venture over the rolling stone entryway.

Venge paused and stood with one foot on worn stone, the other padded by thick grass. “This isn’t right,” he murmured. Both tomb and path had aged decades since he and Anakin had last seen them. If their timeline had been reset, not only should the tomb not exist—the Ones should still be present, as well.

Instead, Venge felt no presences save Rillian, Anakin, and Qui-Gon. He had tried to gain a clearer glimpse of Mortis, an attempt that had failed and damned well given him a headache. The shine of the Force was amazing on Mortis, so much greater than it had been during their last visit. Picking out details in that intense light was like trying to find a small bit of thread in a whitewater washout.

 _Count it,_ he thought. _Be certain._ Two years from Mortis until Order 66. Almost twenty-one years until Luke tracked him down on Tatooine. Almost five years before the Emperor was destroyed. Six years until this moment.

“Thirty-five years,” Venge said aloud, a period of time that looked to match the stone’s decay, the greenery’s influx. “Mortis didn’t reset.”

“Why would it have needed to?”

If the man’s presence had not impinged upon his senses the moment he heard the words, Venge would have been hard-pressed not to attack. Instead, he let out a breath and turned around.

Ulic Qel-Droma was standing a few paces away, further down the stone path. Venge blinked and peered closer. The ancient Jedi looked disturbingly _solid_ for a Force ghost.

“Hi, Kid,” Ulic said, giving Venge a quick visual once-over. “You look like shit.”

Venge tilted his head. “Huh,” he said, and then used the Force to send a sharp hail of pebbles at Qel-Droma.

“Fu— _ow!”_ Ulic shouted, raising his arm as the rocks struck his chest and shoulder. “What the hell, Obi-Wan?”

Venge shrugged. “You looked solid. I wanted to know if you were.”

Ulic rolled his eyes. “You could have used good manners and asked.”

“If you come to me with inadequate manners, then I will grant you the same,” Venge retorted. “I am well aware of my appearance, Qel-Droma.” He wanted to feel relief that Qel-Droma was present as promised, that Fire really would be dealt with, but instead, all he felt was dread—as if nothing done at this point would make any difference at all.

Ulic grimaced. “All right, yes. My diplomacy was bad enough when I was alive, Obi-Wan. I’m sorry—that was uncalled for.”

Venge waved off the apology. “You are _solid_ , Qel-Droma. How is it that you are doing that?” _How could Qui-Gon not do so when I was here before?_

“Oh, that.” Ulic shimmered, his form becoming translucent and outlined with luminescent blue. He took a step up the path and became solid again. Except for a lingering hint of that luminescent glow in Ulic’s blue eyes, he appeared to be as alive and present as Venge himself. “The old Guardians are dead. It’s a lot easier to do most things on Mortis now.”

“Guardians,” Venge repeated. He raised an eyebrow, glancing back over his shoulder to regard Daughter’s tomb. “You mean the Ones.”

“That’s what they called themselves at the end, yeah,” Ulic said. He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, resting the palms of his hands on his hips. “As for the lack of reset, well: Young Skywalker was on the right track, calling this place a wellspring, but it’s more accurate to say that Mortis is a nexus.”

Venge stared at him. That fit what he had been able to see of the Force, but… “A nexus of the Force, or of time?”

Ulic smiled. “Smart boy.”

“Please do not be facetious,” Venge said, his voice heavy with sudden weariness. “Not now. You did not answer my question.”

“Fair enough.” Ulic’s expression grew troubled. “I brought you here for several reasons, Obi-Wan, chief among them a debt that I have yet to pay. The Force does not insist upon its payment, but I do. Teaching young Qui-Gon what I could, _when_ I could, was only the start of it.”

“Young?”

Ulic smirked. “I’m over four thousand years old, Kid. Consider it a perk of being older than dirt.”

Venge didn’t smile back. There was an implication in Qel-Droma’s words that he was not certain he liked. “Did you reset things outside of this place? Did you send Anakin and myself back to this time?”

“No.” Ulic frowned. “I did not. Even if I thought it was a good idea—which I didn’t, by the way—that is not under the dictates of the rules I set for myself. I chose to share knowledge; I try to avoid causing actual change. It’s up to others to decide on the course of action to be taken.”

“If you do not cause actual change, then why am I here?” Venge asked, irritated.

Ulic grimaced. “I did say that I tried not to; it can’t always be avoided. I consider your problem with Fire to be an emergency situation.”

There was a flare of pain in his midsection, strong enough that Venge hissed and pressed his right hand to his chest. “Speaking of,” he muttered, and raised his left hand. Directing energy up and out was taking more effort than should have been needed.

Fire and lightning both leapt from his fingertips, scorching the plant life that had grown up to carpet a nearby hill. When the surge passed, the hill was covered in small licks of flame, eating up the last bits of remaining grass, and the air was full of char.

Ulic looked appalled. “And that’s why I’m here. We have got to do something about that, Obi-Wan.”

“Wait.” Venge held up his hand. “I—” He took a breath, wincing as it made his lungs cramp. “I need a moment.”

He breathed in and out until the cramp eased, but his chest still ached. The bacta treatment on the _Band_ was keeping him upright, but he was starting to realize that unless Qel-Droma really could help him…he was not leaving Mortis. Not alive, at any rate.

“You do not believe that what happened to myself and Anakin was wise, then?” Venge asked. He refused to name Sidious. Qel-Droma knew he was involved, regardless.

Ulic shrugged, but gave Venge a knowing look. The ancient Jedi recognized a stall for time when he heard one. “Usually, no. It’s a deplorably bad idea to mess around with time. It’s so very easy to get it wrong. Whether you’re living or dead, people don’t often realize how _much_ there is, and that there is no straight line back along the course of your life to the past.”

“Time isn’t linear,” Venge said. _Everything happens at once._

Ulic nodded. “I will admit, however, that it was well-done, and most of the problems this back-tracking tends to create were avoided.”

“Most of the problems,” Venge repeated, feeling a brief bite of amusement. “Did I do it?”

“No.” Ulic rolled his eyes. “Are you going to keep naming names until I say yes?”

“Well, if that’s what it…takes.” Venge’s breath stilled in his chest. There was another presence nearby.

 _I sense it, as well,_ Ulic said. Venge glanced at him, not surprised that the ancient Jedi could so easily make himself heard.

_Who?_

Ulic’s eyes narrowed, deep blue becoming cool durasteel. _Trouble._

Venge was not reassured by Ulic’s visible concern. “You’re dead,” he said. “What in the Force do you have to be concerned about?”

Ulic glared at him. “You, you idiot.”

“How touching,” Venge tried to say, but the words were lost to what felt like being hit by a fucking _missile._ He was knocked off his feet when a massive hand struck him across his back, tossing him several meters away from the stone path. He landed on his hip and shoulder and rolled, covering his face when bits of rock and grass started raining down on him.

His ears were ringing; his equilibrium was shot. Venge propped himself up on his elbows, squinting as he glanced around. The path where he and Qel-Droma had been standing was half-gone, blasted directly out of the hillside.

Venge coughed and tasted blood on his lips. He didn’t see Qel-Droma anywhere. The man was already long dead, but Venge knew Mortis, and how _strange_ it could become. “Ulic?” he rasped.

There was a blur of black in front of his eyes before Venge was knocked backwards again. He landed hard on his back, hands raised in his defense. That whispered hint of presence loomed over him—screaming, insane Darkness and gibbering, repeating thoughts that streamed out like a conscious, unavoidable litany.

The Son, Daughter’s insane sibling, leered down at him. The coal-red points of his eyes were faint against the black sclera, but unmistakable in their familiarity. “Hello, Kenobi.”

Venge spat up at him, wrenching his hand free and slamming his palm into Son’s chin. To his consternation, his hand passed through Son’s face. “The hell—!”

Son laughed. “I’ve been dead for a long time, Jedi,” he said, grabbing hold of Venge’s free arm and slamming it down onto the ground. “Partial transparency? Ghostly solidity? These things are easy if you but try.”

“Get _the fuck_ off of me!” Venge roared.

“No, no, I do not think I will be doing that,” Son replied in a sing-song, impossibly high-pitched voice that grated on Venge’s ears. “You see, my goals have not changed, Jedi.”

Venge bared his teeth at Son, after a second attempt at dislodging the bastard failed to produce results. Death had done little to diminish the Son’s power. “Your _goals_ caused the deaths of your sister, your father…oh, and yourself, considering your dear parent helped stab you to death.”

Son growled and put his hand over Venge’s mouth, pressing down hard enough that Venge’s teeth cut into his lips. “Shush, shush, no more speaking. You do not want anything to happen to your Jedi friends, do you, Kenobi?”

Venge swatted the ghost with the Force, enraged. Unlike Vowrawn, the Son was not affected in the least. _When I figure out how to get you off of me, I am going to learn how you are defending yourself before I tear you apart,_ he promised.

“Such a Dark thing to say,” the Son crooned. “I had thought Skywalker would still be a fitting shell to use to escape this world, but you! You have surprised me. You wear your Darkness like a proud banner, and I need do nothing to stoke the flame.”

 _I am not helping you to do a damned thing,_ Venge thought, mental voice a growl of stark refusal.

Son grinned at him, his smile far too wide. If he had still lived, the expression would have split both his upper and lower lip. “I had not planned to ask,” he said in a cheerful voice. He lifted his hand from Venge’s arm, which remained pinned to the grass no matter what Venge did to free himself.

“I am Son. I do not ask. I take what is mine,” Son hissed, and then plunged his transparent hand straight into Venge’s head. It was not bizarre physical assault, but complete mental invasion.

Venge threw his head back against the ground, eyes closed, as he fought the intrusion. Son’s mental fingers were passing through his shields as if they didn’t exist…

…and then Son was inside his head, overwhelming everything he was.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Raallandirr paced through the silent temple with cautious steps, worried that any moment something was going to jump out and try to take a bite out of her hide. Anakin’s story had seemed intriguing and fanciful back on Coruscant. Coming to stand on the planet itself had been awe-inspiring.

Finding herself alone on Mortis was terrifying. Rillian peered around a massive stone pillar before continuing on. The entire place was dark, but intermittent sparks of blue danced at the edges of the walkways. She suspected that the sparks were the remains of lights that had once illuminated the vast place. The temple was composed of dull black stone that refused to reflect light, whether it came from the blue sparks or her own ignited yellow-gold lightsaber.

Except for the malfunctioning lights, there was no dust or rubble, no scent of decay, but the temple still had a feeling of immense age to it. Every step she took, despite her furry feet, echoed and bounced along into the darkness. Her every breath became an eerie whine.

It had seemed prudent to explore, as Master Qui-Gon suggested, but as time passed and everything looked exactly the same, Rillian’s confidence faltered. She gave up and turned, intent on trying to figure out the shortest distance to an exit.

[Raallandirr.]

The sound of her own name startled Rillian so badly that she had her second lightsaber in hand, ignited, before her heartbeat could even speed up.

[This way] the voice said, when Rillian only stood frozen in place.

 _That is Shyriiwook,_ Rillian thought, swallowing hard as she forced herself to step forward. She sensed no danger, still, but she was being taught by a paranoid Master and a cynical one; it was better to be armed and prepared than caught weaponless.

[I don’t bite.]

[Right,] Rillian muttered at the disembodied voice. [And I suppose if I just run screaming, I won’t be able to escape you.]

[You will not be able to leave the Temple of Song until you and I have met face to face,] the speaker said, and there was no mistaking the sadness in her voice.

Rillian sighed and turned when she realized that she had misjudged the voice’s location. She walked hesitantly back in the direction she had come from. [Who are you?] she asked, eyes scanning the temple for threats. She tried to do the same with the Force, but it was like the Force was both too quiet and too loud, and was of almost no help at all.

[A Jedi.]

Rillian frowned. [If you’re a Jedi, why do you hide from me?]

[I do not hide from you. The Temple of Song has rules, and I must follow them, as must you. You have to seek me out of your own free will.]

That made the Wookiee girl stop short. [My own free will?] she barked, incredulous. [But you said that I can’t leave until I speak to you!]

[I did say the place has rules,] the owner of the voice said, gliding out from behind a pillar to stand before Rillian, a mere arm’s length distant. She was a fellow Wookiee, obvious from the furred hands that emerged from her sleeves, as well as from the tall, lanky frame the dark robe covered. She wore her hood pulled low, hiding her face, and the color of her fur was impossible to discern in the poor light.

[Right. Rules,] Rillian grumbled, not lowering her blades.

[Everything has to have them, I’m afraid. Chaos may be the driving force of the universe, but even chaos must be tempered.]

Rillian tilted her head as bits of recognition started to filter in. The female was a Jedi, Rillian was certain. The aura of peace that surrounded the adult Wookiee was hard to fake. This one’s presence felt very nice and companionable, accompanied by a familiar scent.

[Why am I here?] Rillian asked.

[Because I have a message that you must hear, though you will not like it.]

[What’s to like?] she retorted, huffing out an irritated breath as she disengaged her copper lightsaber.

The adult Wookiee laughed, the sound just above a soft whisper. [Oh, I remember those days,] she said, as Rillian scowled. Then the Wookiee Jedi pulled back her hood, and Rillian almost dropped both of her lightsabers in shock.

A pair of very familiar gray eyes looked back at her, surrounded by the brindled black and white fur of Rillian’s distinctive pelt. There was no braid, but her mane had been pulled back, and short threads of fur hung loose around the adult Wookiee’s eyes.

[You’re me,] Rillian whispered, stunned.

[And I’m you,] Raallandirr the Jedi said, smiling.

Instead of being reassured, Rillian felt the bottom fall out of her stomach. [It’s horrible, isn’t it?] she asked, unable to keep the grief out of her voice. [Whatever you’re going to tell me, it’s bad.]

Raallandirr nodded. [Yes. I’m afraid so. Do you still want to know? You have that choice, at least. You may leave now, and the Temple of Song will let you go.]

Rillian shook her head. [No. If I—if you thought it was important enough to come back to this place, then I need to know, don’t I?]

Her adult self nodded, a wealth of sadness in her eyes. [You will lose both of your Masters before your Knighting, Raallandirr.]

For a moment, it was as if time simply stopped, and all of the spit dried up in Rillian’s mouth. [No.]

[Yes,] Raallandirr said, the word a soft, grieving howl.

[How do I stop it?] she asked, tightening her grip on her saber hilts.

Raallandirr shook her head. [That’s not how it works.]

[It has to be!] Rillian shouted, glaring up at her older self. [Otherwise, what’s the _point_?]

She would not let this happen. Her Masters were her entire world, and this stupid planet didn’t get to dictate the future!

[The point,] Raallandirr said, unswayed by Rillian’s fierce denial, [is to love when you can, while you can. Some things cannot be stopped, Raallandirr. Only endured.]

[I don’t believe you,] she whispered, blinking back tears.

The adult Wookiee smiled. [I remember that, too.]

[I can stop this—I can _tell_ them!] Rillian barked, taking a step back. [You didn’t say I couldn’t do that!]

[You can tell them,] Raallandirr agreed. [But I cannot tell you when, or why, or how. Without those things, what is there to do? Will you guard them through every breath? Will you keep your teachers under lock and key? Will you cringe every time you’re all sent into danger?]

That broke her, because young or not, Rillian knew she could do none of those things. She cried, howling, and was barely aware of when the bigger Wookiee drew her into a warm, loving embrace. [Dearheart, it is merely one of the many lessons you must learn. Have faith in the Force. Trust in your teachers, for they are good Masters, and strong Jedi. They will not falter, nor fall easily.]

[But…but…] Rillian swallowed back more tears. She seized upon the only question she could think to ask. [Who cut your braid?]

Raallandirr smiled. [My Master did. Who else?] she howled, and then she was gone.

Rillian gulped in a breath, staring around at the empty Temple. Unlike before, one of the walkway lights had lit up in a solid line of beautiful blue geometric patterns. She glanced down, took it for the invitation it must surely be, and followed the path. She still couldn’t sense anyone nearby, and touching her bonds with her Masters and Anakin resulted in a vague notion that they still lived, but nothing informative.

 _The Temple of Song,_ she thought, and wondered who had named it so.

Rillian sighed and put her lightsabers away as she started to cry again. The thought occurred to her as she was wiping her nose with the edges of her robe: _Grief is a song._

 

*          *          *          *

 

Ulic opened his eyes to find dirt on his face. He reached up and brushed it away, amused; he’d lost consciousness, but had not lost his solid form. It had been a long time since waking in this layer of existence was a possibility. Mortis was nice for that—

Dammit. _Obi-Wan._

Ulic staggered to his feet, a quick shake of his head more than enough to dismiss the effects of whatever the hell had hit them. He put a hand out, touching the wall of Emmaltine’s tomb—he’d been thrown at least ten meters.

Ulic had just started to look around when a blood-curdling shriek froze him in place. _No._

He bolted around the corner and jumped over the torn-up path. “Entroija!” he yelled as he ran. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

Ulic’s only reprieve, the only reason he didn’t stop dead in complete horror, was that he was too old—he’d lived too long, seen too much. Obi-Wan was on the ground, throat working as he tried to speak, or breathe, or scream again. He was pinned down by Entroija, who bore a wide, lunatic smile. The ghost had his damned transparent hand shoved into Obi-Wan’s head.

Entroija looked up at Ulic and laughed. “Too late, dead Jedi.” Ulic watched, filled with cold dread as Entroija sank into Obi-Wan’s body, disappearing into his friend’s skin.

“Oh, fuck—oh, no,” Ulic whispered, skidding to a stop next to Obi-Wan. His body was jerking in place, but his eyes were open, staring up at the sky. The green lines, so faint before, now stood out in stark relief against Obi-Wan’s pale skin. Ulic could sense Entroija still, lurking somewhere within the young Jedi’s psyche.

“Oh, blasted _gods_. Obi-Wan?” _Please, let it be him that answers me._

Venge’s blazing amber eyes tracked towards the sound of Ulic’s voice. Entroija might have made his way in, but he didn’t have control.

Venge’s jaw worked; he gulped in a breath. “Get me…away from here,” he whispered.

“Kid—”

“Fire…or Son.” Venge swallowed, his eyes wide with panic. “Not…both. Please!”

Ulic felt far too many years of existence slam into him in one single moment. His fault—he had stuck his damned hand into the pot, and now this _entire damned mess_ was his fault. Ulic had seen no hint that any of the Guardians still lingered—Entroija had hidden himself too well.

Ulic knew from bitter experience that ghosts were never harmless.

“Okay.” Ulic bent down and helped Venge up, slinging the kid’s arm over his shoulders. Venge radiated heat like a furnace on overload. Worse, Ulic could hear Entroija’s insane mutterings, babbled threats and promises that oozed out into the Force.

“Hold on. You’ve done this before, but not quite like this,” Ulic warned Venge, and then took them both somewhere else.

Venge gasped as they reappeared. The island they were on was small, composed of little more than a sandy path about a quarter of a klik long. The sand led from the edge of the beach to a rising rock wall that was high enough to block out the worst of the wind and the ocean spray.

“Where?” Venge asked. Ulic, realizing how much of Venge’s weight he was supporting, lowered them both to the sand. The water was only a few steps away, black and silvery blue under Mortis’s night sky.

“A safe place,” Ulic said. “Still on Mortis, but separate from Mortis—and it’s under _my_ control. You won’t be able to get out of here unless I show you how to do so, Obi-Wan.”

Venge rested on his knees, then slumped forward to place his hands on the damp sand. “Thank you,” he said in a faint voice.

There was defeat in every line of his body, and that was not acceptable. “Listen,” Ulic said fiercely. “This _will not stand._ It _will_ be fixed. You hang on, all right?”

Venge let out a faint growl. “Overestimating…me...”

Ulic managed a smile. “Shut up. I’m going to get help,” he promised, and thought himself somewhere else.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“You can’t be,” was the first thing he whispered, and Qui-Gon didn’t care if it sounded stupid, because this _could not be._

“Well, not _yet,_ for you,” Obi-Wan replied, stepping closer. With each step his form seemed to become even more solid, until the cave was no longer visible through Obi-Wan’s clothes when Qui-Gon looked at his mate’s body.

Qui-Gon had no idea what to say, no idea what to do. He merely stood there, staring, his heart in his throat and an empty, horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Force, look at you,” Obi-Wan said softly, his expression giving way to intense wistfulness. “I’ve missed seeing you this way.” Obi-Wan raised his hand, and when the tingling sensation of contact touched his cheek, Qui-Gon’s vocal paralysis broke.

“When?” he choked out, lifting his hand to touch Obi-Wan’s clean-shaven face, swearing when he could not. His fingertips could only feel the same tingling sensation that was Obi-Wan’s hand, cupping his face.

“That would be cheating,” Obi-Wan replied, a teasing lilt in his voice that didn’t match the sudden pain in his eyes. He stepped away, turning to face the distant reaches of the chamber. In profile, Qui-Gon could see there was more color to his form, now, revealing the wide swaths of white that cut through Obi-Wan’s hair at his temples. Obi-Wan was older than Qui-Gon had originally surmised, but seeing him like this, seeing it _now_ , was one of the worst things in life he had ever faced.

“We’ve met here before, you know that?” Obi-Wan said, his gaze still distant. “I never told Anakin, so he was not able to tell you…and I had my own reasons to keep silent.” He smiled. “Our situation was reversed, as well. You were the spirit, and I was solid flesh.”

“I’m sorry,” Qui-Gon whispered, even though he had no memory of what Obi-Wan was speaking of. It seemed to be all he could think of to say.

“Don’t be. Don’t apologize for things you don’t yet remember,” Obi-Wan shook his head, as if realizing he was causing his mate further anguish. “No. I’m sorry. I’m handling this badly.”

Qui-Gon found his voice again. “For a Force-ghost, you have a certain lack of serenity today, Obi-Wan.” He meant it to be a light statement, but once the words were out of his mouth, they sounded petty, and he hated that.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flashed. “I’m not—I’m not here for the reasons you think I am, Qui,” he said. “I’m here less for me, and more for you.”

“For me?” Qui-Gon asked, realizing he was on the verge of holding his breath when Obi-Wan stepped close once more. There was something in the other man’s eyes that was indefinable, and actually frightening to behold.

“There will come a day when you’re going to blame yourself for this,” Obi-Wan said, and there was no doubt as to what he meant. “I’m here to remind you: Don’t. I want you to remember that, Qui-Gon Jinn. This is not your fault.”

He couldn’t help asking. “ _Is_ it actually my fault, though?”

Obi-Wan snorted out a laugh. “No, you idiot. It’s not. But you and guilt go hand in hand, sometimes, and there’s been quite enough of that.”

Suddenly, Qui-Gon realized why the entire encounter felt wrong, and it made his heart break for his mate, and for what seemed to be waiting for them in the years ahead. “You can’t do this for me later. For whatever reason, despite the bond, we can’t speak to each other. I can’t see you.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes shimmered with what Qui-Gon suspected might have been tears. “No. You can’t. That’s why it’s here and now, Qui. This is the last time you will be on Mortis.”

“I could come back,” he said, and then knew he would not—he must not, not if this was the only way Obi-Wan could interact with him.

Obi-Wan was also shaking his head. “No. You never return here—or at least, you have not done so by _my_ point in time. That, I can tell you.”

He took Qui-Gon’s hand. Amazingly, it was like touching solid flesh, and Obi-Wan’s form had lost most of its luminescence. This was, Qui-Gon knew, as solid as Obi-Wan could become.

“Mortis is very old, Qui-Gon. The ancients, those who would one day bear the name Jedi, found a planet that was a nexus of the Force, and thus, a nexus of _everything_. To keep it protected, those ancient Jedi built the monolith around it, using the same technology that enabled the creation of the Corellian system.

“Once, there were guardians who lived here, helping to operate the monolith from the inside, allowing those who needed the planet’s refuge to visit. But the technology disappeared, and the Jedi began to forget this place existed. The ones who were here before, who called themselves Father, Son, and Daughter, were the last of those guardians.”

Qui-Gon wasn’t sure what made him do it, but this was his mate, his spouse, the man Qui-Gon had bonded with, before enduring the odd trappings of ceremony to legally bind them together. He didn’t give a damn what separated them—some things would always remain. Qui-Gon put his fingers under Obi-Wan’s chin, lifting his head, and then kissed him.

Obi-Wan whimpered into Qui-Gon’s mouth, wrapping both of his arms around Qui-Gon in willing response. The tingling remained, but there was solid form beneath. No real heat, but sensation was present, and the feel of his lips and tongue were exactly the same.

The kiss ended abruptly when Obi-Wan’s form lost substance, and he gave Qui-Gon an apologetic look. “Sorry. Couldn’t hold it together. It’s hard to do.”

“I don’t care,” Qui-Gon said, smiling. “You’re still you. I love you.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes as if pained. “Thank you. I—I just—Oh, _Qui-Gon,_ ” he whispered, and in the Force there was a shocking burst of pain, mixed with grief and longing. “I love you. Don’t you _ever_ forget that.”

“Never,” Qui-Gon promised, but Obi-Wan was already gone.

Qui-Gon stood, unmoving, as the brighter light of the cave diminished until it was nothing more than the faint glow of natural phosphorescent life. Not even a hint of Obi-Wan’s presence lingered; it was as if his mate’s spirit had been ripped from this place.

He needed something, some sort of reassurance that what he had just seen was not part of _now._ It did not alleviate his concern when he touched upon the Lifebond and found not solid presence, but an echo that spoke of vast distance.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Anakin Skywalker wasn’t normally prone to talking to himself, but in this case, he felt the circumstances warranted an exception. “This is so, so stupid,” he muttered as he climbed down the rock face of the well. The light was disappearing as he descended, faster than it should have gone. The Well, like Mortis, had already started playing tricks.

“Aw, man,” Anakin muttered, taking a quick look down. The lava was a red-gold glimmer far below, but one that was getting closer all the time. “I bet this is worse than last time.”

Of course, he couldn’t quite remember what had happened the last time he had been down here. “Someone named it the Well of the Dark Side, of _course_ it’s going to be awful,” Anakin grumbled again. He tried to shake off a feeling of pervasive, vile gloom, but it wouldn’t quite go. It was like the atmosphere of the place wanted to sink into his bones, which was not remotely all right. The deeper Anakin went, the darker it got, until he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

“Been there, done that, _played this stupid game!_ ” Anakin shouted the moment his feet touched the bottom of the well. The heat was intense, but bearable. For a moment, he flashed upon steaming rocks, rivers of bright lava, and rage, so much _rage_ —

“No,” Anakin whispered, and managed to ditch the…the illusion? Memory? He was honestly not quite sure. The last time he’d come here, the Ones had used Mortis’s energy to do terrible things. Anakin was pretty sure he, Obi-Wan, and Ahsoka had nearly lost their lives to the Ones’ crazy shit.

 _Huh._  “What’ll it be this time? The Son, again?” Anakin wondered aloud, narrowing his eyes. If the Daughter’s tomb was still in place, was the Son dead, as well? Their Father? There was no reason they shouldn’t still exist, especially since the events of the Clone Wars hadn’t _happened_ yet.

Anakin shook his head. “Right,” he muttered, creating a shield with the Force to protect his exposed skin. With wary steps, he made his way out onto the wide land bridge that spanned the pool of lava. The heat from the stone was hot enough to warm his toes through the thick leather of his boots.

Challenges were to be faced in the central bottom of the well. The heat close to the wall hadn’t been bad, but once he started crossing the bridge, the air around him shimmered. Sweat formed on his skin and evaporated in the next moment.

Every step he took reminded him of Mustafar, memories crowding into his head that normally were not Anakin’s own. “This isn’t there. It’s not then. I’m not _him,_ ” Anakin repeated. The words faltered only when he realized that on the opposite side of the bridge, someone was mirroring his steps. He and his shadow approached each other slowly, and a sick, certain feeling began to coil in Anakin’s belly.

The moment the metallic visage became clear, Anakin’s temper flared like it hadn’t in years. “I’m not _you!”_ he shouted, as they met in the center of the bridge. The shadow halted at the same moment Anakin did.

Darth Vader stared down at Anakin with the soulless, fathomless black eyes carved into his mask. Aside from bubbling lava, the only sound was the harsh, repetitive hiss of his artificial respirator.  

“If you do not make peace with me, you will never again be a Jedi Knight,” Vader said.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got plenty of time to prove you wrong, don’t I?” Anakin retorted, crossing his arms as he glared up at the specter.

“You know that denial will not help. You denied certain truths before, and the result stands before you.”

Anakin bit his lip and looked away. That was true, but it was still awful to hear it from the thing he’d once been, illusion or not. “So, what do I have to do, then?”

“You must accept me.”

Anakin snapped back around to face him. “No!” he yelled back. “I. Am not. A Sith. I refuse to be you!”

“You are me. I am you,” Vader intoned emotionlessly, ignoring Anakin’s outburst. “You cannot deny me without denying a part of yourself.”

The sick feeling was only getting stronger, and Anakin hated it and Mortis with it. “What if I look into what I was, what you are, and become you again anyway?”

“Then you are weak,” the Sith Lord replied, callous and cold. “And you will die.”

“No,” Anakin snarled back. “I’m not, and I won’t, because I _did that_ already. I learned that lesson, and I don’t need to repeat it!”

Vader merely looked at Anakin in silence, until Anakin blinked and stepped back. “Oh. That’s—that’s right! I’m right, I mean,” he stammered, eyes wide. “I _did_ already do this. I don’t need to fear you.”

“I am not what you fear,” Vader retorted. It seemed the specter had emotions after all, if that indignant, angry tone was anything to go by.

All at once, Anakin realized he was grinning. “But I thought you were me, and I was you! Or does it only count when you get to mock me?”

“You are unwise to make assumptions in this place,” Vader snarled, and raised his hand.

Anakin stumbled back, startled by the Force push. “Hey!” he yelped, and snapped a hand through the air on instinct.

Vader lost his balance but did not fall when subjected to the same shove. “Your powers are weak.”

Anakin scowled. “You are a broken fucking shell,” he spat.

Vader let loose a roar and charged. Anakin scrambled back, and then fell on his ass when Vader’s gloved fist connected with his chest.

Anakin coughed for breath. He scooted backwards with his hands and feet, wide-eyed, as Vader came closer.

“Weak,” Vader repeated mockingly. “For all your lessons learned, you are still nothing but a child.”

Anakin gasped when Vader ignited his lightsaber, casting red light onto the stone and across Anakin’s clothes. He reached for his lightsaber and found it missing.

“We know who the true Master is,” Vader said, and raised his blade.

Anakin was startled, and relieved, when someone stepped between him and Vader, effortlessly knocking Vader’s lightsaber aside. “Yes,” Anakin’s rescuer said, “and we all know that it isn’t you.”

 

*          *          *          *

 _Fuck. Fuck, and also fuck._ Ulic broke off on swearing, thinking that Kenobi had probably been the worst influence on his vocabulary in at least fifteen hundred years. He needed an actual plan. Vociferous swearing, though stress-relieving, was not going to make a plan appear out of thin air.

That wasn’t even true; he had a plan. The problem lay in that he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it—no, he wasn’t sure _when_ to go about it. His chosen assistant was alive at the moment, and therefore vulnerable. Ulic was already frustrated enough that he’d misjudged Entroija’s tenacity. The kid would never forgive him if Ulic managed to get Obi-Wan’s Lifemate killed.

Ulic’s other problem was one of his own making. When he’d discovered his companion’s desire to send the consciousness of one individual back along his own timeline, Ulic had not reacted well. The entire concept—that was something one _did not do._ He had bowed out of all responsibility by jumping ahead to the point after that change had already happened…only to discover that the fucking mess he’d expected to find did not exist.

There was no help for it. Ulic was going to have to double-back on himself and hope he didn’t cause any damage in the process, or give himself a headache. Both were equally plausible.

He found Qui-Gon Jinn standing alone, studying a great tapestry of multicolored threads. Each strand was a line of fate, crisscrossing other threads.   They twisted around on themselves, tangling with others. Certain threads created new ones, or choked other lines out of existence.

Ulic froze, his attention caught by the tableau. Jinn was such a damned _natural_ at reading the flow of the Force, of translating time and fate into representations that were easier to understand. The Jedi Master had figured out paths and hints that Ulic, even after four thousand years, had barely even conceived of—and to Ulic’s complete dismay, Kenobi’s Lifemate had forgotten all of this.

It wasn’t long before his presence was acknowledged. “I thought you were refusing to have anything to do with any hint of this endeavor,” Qui-Gon said.

“I fucked up,” Ulic blurted, and then inwardly cringed. Passing millennia did not necessarily bring eloquence.

Qui-Gon turned to face him, the silver in his hair picking up the color from the tapestry of threads. “And this is unusual, how?” he asked, a hint of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

“Ass,” Ulic said, unfazed by the teasing. It was well-deserved, anyway. “I need your help.”

The smile vanished. Qui-Gon waved away the threads, which curled up into individual points before fading out of existence. “What is it?”

“You need to come with me and help me save your—” Ulic checked himself before he uttered the slip “—Padawan.”

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon’s eyes widened. “Force, what kind of trouble has he managed to find in the middle of that blasted desert? It hasn’t been that long.”

Ah; there was the headache brewing. Ulic put a hand over his eyes and sighed. “I’m decades ahead of you right now. Let’s just say I’ve changed my mind about your attempt to time-shift those three.”

“How did you know that? I just realized…” Qui-Gon stared at him. _“Oh,”_ he whispered, his shock creating a ripple in the environment around them.

“Yeah, that,” Ulic replied with a hard-edged grin. “Are you coming with me, or what?”

“He must be somewhere easily accessible, if you think we can actually assist him,” Qui-Gon said, giving him a wary look.

Ulic nodded. “Mortis.”

Qui-Gon’s expression went flat and grim. “I see,” he said, and held out his hand.

Ulic took it, pulling them back to Mortis, back to the island where he’d left Obi-Wan. “Dammit,” he swore, the moment he’d finished materializing. Kenobi was gone, but footprints followed the path. He’d buggered up his timing by at least ten minutes…long enough for Darkness to have exploded into literal expression.

The sky above was filled with turbulent, churning violet clouds, highlighted by constant bursts of brilliant blue lightning. It was not quite a Force Storm, but the potential was there. Ulic shifted his form solid and could suddenly smell intense ozone, and feel the play of static over his skin. They were close enough to the maelstrom that electricity tried to ground itself in his body, but no matter the opportunities that Mortis provided, some things just weren’t possible any longer.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Qui-Gon sounded grieved.

“It’s not necessarily what you might think,” Ulic said. “Someone gave him A Drop of Fire.”

Qui-Gon frowned. “You said it was extinct.”

“Well, it _was,_ ” Ulic emphasized. “But the one who recreated it didn’t know the dosage, and gave him far too much. Smart kid knew exactly what to do to avoid following my footsteps into the land of crazy, though.”

“Balance and acceptance,” Qui-Gon murmured, staring at the flux of energy at the end of the path. Ulic knew Obi-Wan was there, even though he could not be seen. “Gods.”

“He wasn’t doing all that bad, but...” Ulic shook his head. “His health was failing, and I told him to come here. Between the two of us, it wouldn’t have been all that difficult to eradicate Fire.”

“What went wrong?”

“Entroija,” Ulic answered in a flat voice. A large bolt of lightning struck the origin point of the storm. That would have been painful, no matter what kind of energy Kenobi was used to channeling.

“The Son,” Qui-Gon interpreted. “Gods, Ulic. Corrupting that which is already being actively corrupted?”

“No.” Ulic clenched his jaw. “Possession. Now listen,” he said, before Qui-Gon’s horror could overwhelm either of them. “Obi-Wan said that he could deal with Fire or Entroija, but not both. That means I’m not sure who you’re going to find at the end of this path, but I _do_ know that Obi-Wan Kenobi would sooner tear off his own arms than harm you.”

“You wish me to be bait.” Qui-Gon nodded. “Plan?”

 _Sometimes there were benefits to dealing with people who were absolutely crazy about each other,_ Ulic thought, amused by his friend’s easy capitulation. “I need to know a lot more about what I’m dealing with before I get involved. Get him talking, and keep his attention focused on you.”

Qui-Gon took a step and then paused. “Ulic. How bad is it?”

Ulic didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Remember how Obi-Wan looked after coming out of Sidious’s pit on Coruscant?” When Qui-Gon nodded, Ulic said, “It’s worse,” before he disappeared from view. He left just enough of his presence to allow Qui-Gon to know that Ulic hadn’t fled, and then hid the entirety of himself from anyone’s perception save his own.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“Well.” Qui-Gon took a moment to center his thoughts, to calm raging emotions. Ulic had given him no opportunity to adjust to the news of Qui-Gon’s success, to Mortis, or to what the hell had happened to Obi-Wan. He was struggling to crush the notion that this was less Ulic’s fault than his own.

 _No,_ he thought. _Focus._ He could not walk into that Dark morass with anything less than perfect serenity, or the very idea of what he faced would make him useless to Obi-Wan, and that was unacceptable.

Qui-Gon cast out the rest of his senses, curious as to what he was going to find. There did not seem to be any other signs of life on Mortis…no; he was wrong. He could sense the faintest impression of Daughter. Her lingering spirit possessed an air of waiting, though he couldn’t discern the purpose of her vigil.

His feel for the passage of time yielded more information. He would be sixty-two years old now, as long as he hadn’t gotten his foolish self killed by a Sith for a second time. Obi-Wan would be twenty-two, and Knighted, else he was going to have to figure out how to strangle half the Council for willful blindness. Force knew it was a sin he’d also been guilty of in the past.

Qui-Gon was not lurking in the past, or drifting in the present. He was standing in his own _future,_ a thought that brought forth awe and lingering amusement. Once he and Ulic had rescued Obi-Wan from this particular predicament, his Padawan would no doubt have some choice words for his old Master.

There; he was as ready as he would ever be. He stepped from the island’s beach onto the sandy path. He took his cue from Ulic’s earlier example and allowed translucent, luminescent blue to become solid. It was not a thing he could do in other places, but Mortis was a wellspring; such transitions here were as easy as breathing. The only thing that had kept him from managing the same before—had kept him from being _useful_ to Obi-Wan, Anakin, and their Padawan—had been the Guardians’ demented interference in the flow of the Force.

The sand was littered with a trail of discarded blades, which bolstered Qui-Gon’s amusement, and his confidence in Obi-Wan’s survival. He had no idea how Obi-Wan had managed to secret away that many knives, not if he was still wearing a Jedi’s tunics. His Padawan had learned to throw knives in order to cope with stress, but it was during his tenure as Venge that the affectation for sharp, shiny objects had increased tenfold.

That was enough for him to slow his steps. If Entroija had been dealt with, he would be facing Venge, not Obi-Wan.

He set aside the realization and continued on. Further along the path lay a black-handled dagger. When Qui-Gon stepped past, he thought he saw a flare of green light from the hilt, but upon closer inspection, there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen.

Ulic’s warning prepared him, and yet it didn’t prepare him at all. At first, all Qui-Gon could see of Obi-Wan was a body wreathed in angry violet energy, sparks and blue lightning dancing on and around him before it crawled up into the atmosphere. The electricity tried to find ground in Qui-Gon’s body, but it took only a thought to keep it at bay. Darkness flooded outward from Obi-Wan in a wave so powerful that it was twisting reality, altering rock and plant life in a way that even Mortis never intended. All Qui-Gon could smell was ozone and something akin to burning tar.

Qui-Gon finally came close enough to see Obi-Wan’s face, and halted in shock. Ulic had warned him, and yet it had not been enough. Obi-Wan’s eyes, bruised and sunken, were not blue, nor amber, but reminiscent of the Son. The sclera was solid black, but his pupils were shining gold, not red. He was clean-shaven, which revealed horrible dark green lines that marred his pale skin in a way that bespoke blatant physical corruption. It all served to make his Padawan look like a reanimated corpse.

Obi-Wan’s gaze focused on him, but Qui-Gon could get no sense of identity from him at all. He couldn’t feel Obi-Wan’s warm presence, or the sharp bite of Venge, or even Entroija’s polite insanity. There was nothing but that flood of Darkness, as if Obi-Wan had become nothing more than a conduit.

The Conduit smiled at him. “Master,” he whispered, and Qui-Gon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool night air. This was not going to be pleasant. The thing that Entroija had pretended to be, a living representation of the Dark side—Qui-Gon knew that was what he faced, now, a success that the Son had never attained in all his eons of trying.

The Conduit stood up. The electrical storm around him quieted, but the energy didn’t disperse. Instead, it added itself to the storm above, increasing its furor.

“Well, isn’t _that_ interesting,” the Conduit said, with a sinuous stretch that felt entirely out of place. “He was not expecting you.”

Qui-Gon hesitated, a moment that almost lasted too long. “Then that makes us even, as I was not expecting _you._ ” He was supposed to be the provided distraction that would fix the situation; he could not be a hapless mess.

The Conduit tilted his head. It was not a sharp movement, but a drift of lazy regard. “I can see where you’ve been. You do not belong here.”

Qui-Gon couldn’t help a grim smile. “No, not really,” he admitted. It was true enough. “But Obi-Wan does.” He could feel it, underneath the chaos of all the Conduit’s channeled energy. Obi-Wan _fit_ in this time and place. “You, however, do not belong here, either.”

“I belong where I choose,” the Conduit hissed back. Qui-Gon was beginning to see how much of Entroija’s interference had shaped the Conduit’s identity, but he had no idea what that would mean for Obi-Wan.

“No,” Qui-Gon countered. “You belong everywhere. What you are now—this singular expression—that is what does not belong. This is never supposed to be.”

He managed not to flinch back when the Conduit flew at him, lightning and actual fire at his fingertips. The Conduit raised his arms to strike and then halted mid-motion. He tried to move forward, to renew his assault, and could not. Whatever attack he meant to perform, it was obvious that something—some _one_ —was keeping the Conduit from completing it.

Qui-Gon smiled. “Well. Isn’t that interesting?” he said, a deliberate repetition.

The Conduit lowered his arms. The golden centers of his eyes were flaring; a wall of heat bathed Qui-Gon, emitted by Obi-Wan’s body. It felt like standing next to an inferno.

They stared at each other, unmoving. The Conduit smirked. “It honestly amazes me what mortals will do for something as trivial as an emotional response.”

“It does not surprise me at all,” Qui-Gon replied in a soft voice.

“Hmm.” The Conduit’s hand came up, but not to attack. The barest brush of Obi-Wan’s fingers across Qui-Gon’s lips burned like a brand. The accompanying static discharge was strong enough to cause him actual pain. “And yet, you’ve never said a word of your own emotional state. Why not do so now?”

“Is he even capable of listening?” Qui-Gon countered, refusing to reveal how much the Conduit’s words had disturbed him.

The Conduit stared at him, all trace of amusement gone. “He _is_ me.”

“No.” Qui-Gon shook his head. “You are a _construct._ You’ve only made Obi-Wan a part of that, not a whole.”

“He was already a part of a whole,” the Conduit refuted, scowling. “You saw to that, remember?”

The barb struck hard, as it was intended. Qui-Gon was still struggling to come up with a response when Ulic reappeared just behind the Conduit.

The Conduit spun around to face the new threat, a growl of rage emerging from his throat—only to be cut short when Ulic shoved a knife into the Conduit’s chest.

Qui-Gon felt the impact as if the knife had struck him, as well. “Ulic, what the hell are you—”

 _“Hold him!”_ Ulic roared back, eyes flashing, command in every line of the ancient Jedi’s body.

It was less choice and more complete instinct to obey. Qui-Gon wrapped his arms around Obi-Wan from behind, pinning the smaller man in place with Obi-Wan’s too-hot back pressed against Qui-Gon’s chest.

The black-handled knife he’d last seen discarded in the sand was embedded in the right side of Obi-Wan’s body, stuck neatly through the gap between his ribs. It was not a fatal blow, but it wasn’t a kind one, either.

To Qui-Gon’s surprise, the hilt flared with light again, but this time glyphs were appearing, ethereal green fire against solid black. “What the hell, Ulic,” Qui-Gon whispered, watching in amazed, detached horror as the glyphs multiplied and spread, creeping onto Obi-Wan’s skin, shining and clear over the soft brown of his charred shirt.

There was a predatory smile on Ulic’s face, a stark reminder that the man had once been one of the most infamous Sith Lords in history. “He is such a smart damned kid. It’s a binding spell,” he said, touching the knife’s hilt. “It does mean, however, that the knife has to be _used_ to activate it.”

“It seems a poor choice of binding tool,” Qui-Gon said. The Conduit wasn’t fighting Qui-Gon’s hold, and had not even managed a sound of pain after being stabbed. Obi-Wan wasn’t frozen, exactly; his entire body was quivering with tension, or perhaps a thwarted desire to escape.

“It’s still damned good work,” Ulic mused, placing his hand above Obi-Wan’s heart. “Blood magic’s not usually possible for Light practitioners. I really want to meet the Jedi who made that.”

Qui-Gon clenched his jaw in sudden anger. “You really, _really_ should have warned me.”

“No, I really should not have.” Ulic glanced up at him, his eyes hard. “Hold him, and I mean it.”

Ulic looked down at Obi-Wan, and his gaze became apologetic. “This is not how things were supposed to happen. I’m really sorry about this, Kid, but we don’t have a choice any longer,” he said, and shoved his now-transparent hand into Obi-Wan’s chest.

Obi-Wan jerked in Qui-Gon’s arms in reaction. Then he screamed, a raw sound that assailed Qui-Gon’s eardrums and scoured his heart.

Ulic bit out a curse and pulled an intangible black _thing_ from Obi-Wan’s body. It was small and ravaged, with feebly moving tattered ends. In the Force, there was a faint, mewling sound that might have been pain.

“That’s what’s left of Entroija,” Ulic said, eying the destroyed spirit in complete disgust. “Poor, stupid bastard.” He flung Entroija’s remains up into the air, where the black misshapen thing began to wither and fall apart.

“I believe that may be the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen,” Qui-Gon said, shock turning his voice to a hushed whisper.

“You’re still young,” Ulic replied absently. “Steel yourself. The next one is going to be worse.”

When Ulic plunged his hand in the second time, Obi-Wan didn’t scream. He went rigid, his breath seizing in his chest.

“Fuck,” Ulic muttered, eyes narrowed in concentration. “This is a lot more complicated than it should have been.”

“Hurry, Ulic,” Qui-Gon whispered. He could feel Obi-Wan dying with each moment that passed. It was one stress too many on a body that already felt like it had been pushed to its limit.

“I’m trying,” Ulic snarled back, face contorting with effort. “This is—fuck!”

“Ulic!”

“I’ve got it!” Ulic shouted, and pulled forth a red, pulsing mass from Obi-Wan’s body. Unlike Entroija’s remains, the red mass was huge, creating a misty cloud over their heads that was a rival for the dying Dark electrical storm the Conduit had created.

“Ulic, that’s—” Qui-Gon didn’t have the words to express what he felt in that moment. Witnessing that last removal had filled him with nauseated disbelief.

Ulic nodded. “That’s Fire for you, amplified by will and potential.” He conjured forth luminescent blue flame, which surrounded and consumed the red mass until there was nothing left of it.

Qui-Gon jerked his attention away from the hypnotic sight. Obi-Wan was still not breathing. The quivering had become the random jerks of a body desperately trying to function, but failing.

“Ulic. Please.”

Ulic snapped his gaze back to Obi-Wan. “Right.” He took hold of the black dagger’s hilt. “Ready?”

Qui-Gon nodded; Ulic pulled the dagger free in one swift movement. Obi-Wan slumped as the binding spell was removed, but Qui-Gon held firm, refusing to let him fall. He clamped his hand over the wound, letting the Force flow through him, healing destroyed tissue, shoring up energy reserves that had been all but obliterated by the Conduit’s presence. It was so damned easy to do this on Mortis without the Guardians’ interference, and it made Qui-Gon frustrated for all the times that he stood by, a useless, helpless witness.

Qui-Gon moved his hand, relieved to see bloodstained yet whole skin. Obi-Wan was unmoving, still not breathing, but he wasn’t gone, not dead. Qui-Gon could feel his presence, a bright shine of light and swirling grey mist. Different from what he was used to, but as familiar to Qui-Gon as his own soul.

“Come on, Kid,” Ulic urged, cupping Obi-Wan’s face with his hands. “Come on, you can do it. Please breathe, Kid, or your Master is going to rend me to bits.”

Qui-Gon released a long sigh when Obi-Wan’s chest rose with a single breath. It was uneven and faint, but it was followed by another, and another, until he was more or less breathing steadily.

“Force,” he whispered, and shifted Obi-Wan so that his head was resting against Qui-Gon’s chest. Obi-Wan’s closed eyes were ringed by deep black bruises, and the angles of his face were too stark, but the green patterned lines seem less vivid than before.

“You’re the healer,” Ulic said, his voice cracking on the third word and revealing his exhaustion. “Tell me where he stands.”

Qui-Gon frowned, touching his fingertips to the edge of Obi-Wan’s jaw and feeling a hint of bristle. He had not been mistaken about Obi-Wan’s earlier exhaustion, about reserves run dry. To his senses, it felt like Obi-Wan had been ill for weeks, if not months.

“This is not a day or two of recovery,” Qui-Gon said at last, feeling his heart ache. The last few months of Obi-Wan’s life must have been dire. He hoped that Obi-Wan had not suffered through it alone. “This is weeks of recuperation, if not actual convalescence.”

Ulic sighed. “I suspected as much.” He grabbed Qui-Gon’s arm and teleported them without so much as a by-your-leave.

Qui-Gon bit back an angry curse; he hated being moved about without his consent. Instead, he focused on his surroundings. They were on another beach, one that was being illuminated by the first hint of dawn. The water behind them was calm, like the surface of a mirror. Before them was a very old stone staircase, leading up to a sprawling structure made of smooth white stone. At least one wall had crumbled, but the rest of the residence looked to be more or less intact. There was also a hum of power emanating from the building, but not in a way that felt dangerous.

“What is this place?”

“This is the heart of Mortis,” Ulic said, and yawned. “It’s old and run-down, and frankly it’s a fabulous place to nap. I am _done in,_ Jinn. Metaphysical fishing is not for the weak or faint of heart.”

“And Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked. Obi-Wan was still emitting far too much heat for a living human body, but this time it felt reminiscent of fever, not Force-driven overload.

“Will be safe here, especially with both of us making sure he doesn’t break himself again,” Ulic answered him, unconcerned.

 _Us?_ “Wait a minute,” Qui-Gon sputtered. “Ulic, I’m—I’m in the wrong damned _time!_ Providing your distraction is one thing, but I cannot stay here!”

“Oh, such concern for not meddling,” Ulic shot back, dry as dust. “Should have thought of that before you started mucking about with time. Besides, are you really in such a hurry to rush off?”

Qui-Gon hesitated, glancing down at Obi-Wan. The old, distraught ache flared up in his chest, a distinctive reminder that it had been ages, decades, since touch had been an option…and yet, that was exactly what he was doing right now. He brushed his fingers along Obi-Wan’s cheek, feeling heat and life at his fingertips, and realized he had copied the last touch he had ever consciously given his Padawan.

Qui-Gon looked up at Ulic, who had a sympathetic smile on his face. “I didn’t think you would,” Ulic said.

“No,” Qui-Gon agreed in a faint voice. “I suppose I’ll be staying, after all.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween. =^-^=
> 
> There may be another 2-week gap between posts. Not certain yet.
> 
> (And yes, of course it's a Holmes reference!)


End file.
